He tried to open his door, but didn’t succeed until he rammed a shoulder angrily into it. Leaping out into the mud, he tried to squelch the fantasy of beating the driver of that truck to death with his own arm. Before he could completely eradicate the violent image, though, something moved in the woods about twenty meters to his right.

Smith was using the commercial version of the Merge, so there was no sophisticated outline enhancement, but it didn’t matter. He knew the barrel of an M16 when he saw one.

He made a move for the Sig Sauer stashed in the Triumph’s glove box, but then froze when a shout rose up behind him.

“Don’t!”

He held his arms out non-threateningly and turned back slowly. One gun had become three and all were held by men who appeared to know how to use them.

The sound of a motor became audible up the road and he watched a dark blue Yukon come to a stop next to what was left of his Triumph. The man who stepped out was probably around seventy, with gray, close-cropped hair and a thin but powerful body that would have taken iron discipline to maintain at that age. He moved with military precision and not the mercenary swagger that Smith had learned to immediately recognize. No, this man had served his country as a soldier—probably for his entire career. But what country?

“Colonel,” he said with an American accent that answered that particular question. “I’m a great admirer. We all owe you a debt for your work on the Hades virus. And of course, your involvement in Cassandra and Chambord’s computer.”

He’d listed the operations in a matter-of-fact tone, but they’d clearly been chosen for impact. While some of Smith’s role in Hades was in the public record, his involvement with the other two incidents was highly classified.

Smith examined the man as he approached—the intensity of his green eyes, the scar running along the weathered skin beneath his chin, the expression that gave nothing away.

“Walk with me, Colonel,” he said, passing by and heading into the trees. A quick glance around confirmed that the armed men were still there. And even if they hadn’t been, a physical confrontation with this man, as old as he was, wouldn’t be a trivial matter. Better to just play along for now.

“I’m sorry about your car,” he said, actually sounding sincere. “It’s a beautiful piece of American history.”

Smith thought again about the gun safely tucked into what was probably now an inoperable glove box and how, if he survived this, Randi would never let him live it down. How many times had she criticized him for not always bristling with weaponry?

Disconcertingly, the man also seemed to be able to read minds.

“I’d like to talk to you about Randi Russell.”